


Tales from the Table Round: Sir Aziraphale Lays Low the Black Dragon Terrorizing the Kingdom of Wessex

by Brynncognito



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Armor, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Good at Cunnilingus (Good Omens), Aziraphale-centric (Good Omens), Biting, Blasphemy, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Bruises, Come Eating, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dragon Crowley (Good Omens), Dragons, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Implied Consent, Knight Aziraphale (Good Omens), Knight Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Oral Sex, Other, Oysters as Aphrodisiacs, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Outsider, Porn Can Have a Little Plot As a Treat, Power Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rough Sex, Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round: 'Slayer' of Dragons, Size Difference, Size Kink, Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), Teasing, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wherein Aziraphale Gets Peeled Open Like a Particularly Flustered Can of Sardines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22952407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/pseuds/Brynncognito
Summary: For the prompt: "‘Defeating’ the black knight in ‘swordsmanship’ was hard enough. Now Sir Aziraphale has to defeat a rather familiar looking dragon."This, uh, got away from me a bit. Hope you enjoy.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 213
Collections: MFU Palentine's Day Exchange





	Tales from the Table Round: Sir Aziraphale Lays Low the Black Dragon Terrorizing the Kingdom of Wessex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KitschyKit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitschyKit/gifts).



> This ended up being super fun to write, and I'm always eager to write some good ol' fashioned monster (or dragon) fucking~
> 
> A handful of warnings in the end notes, if you need 'em. Sorry not sorry for the obnoxiously long title lmao.

They meet in a damp, foggy glen in the Kingdom of Wessex in 537 AD, and it’s almost like they’re strangers again. With humans around and no telling whether Heaven or Hell is watching ( _anyone_ could be, and they’d never know, not with the pea soup thickness of the fog that’s rolled in), they treat each other with an off-hand, very loose familiarity. Acquaintances at best, certainly not the passionate lovers they’d become after Aziraphale had fed Crowley oysters in Rome, followed by his even more filling cock. 

Aziraphale finds himself rather distracted by the memories, and by the gorgeous way Crowley’s eyes had glowed in the dim, overcast light of the vale. It’s been several decades since their paths last crossed, both of them too cautious to let their dalliances become overly frequent. Aziraphale finds himself _aching_ for Crowley and wastes little time tracking rumors to the Black Knight’s castle. (And he rolls his eyes, as soon as he learns that Crowley’s claimed a castle for himself. He always _has_ been over-the-top.)

Crowley’s gaze is hidden by dark-tinted glasses when Aziraphale’s let into the Great Hall, both of them fairly dwarfed by the cavernous chamber, but his lips twitch upwards as he drawls a casual greeting, sprawled out in a throne-like chair that looks far from comfortable, though the serpent doesn’t much seem to mind. It helps, likely, that his body is only _loosely_ human-shaped, far too sinuous to be contained by mortal standards of comfort. Aziraphale stifles a smile himself, trying not to let his _love_ for the demon shine through too blatantly. Judging by the quiet scoff Crowley gives, he’s not entirely successful.

They spend some time sitting beside the fire and recounting their deeds since last they met. They drink mead, then wine, and the combined warmth of inebriation and Crowley’s presence settles comfortably in Aziraphale’s chest before it ever so gradually begins to drift lower. Aziraphale licks his lips and catches Crowley’s eye (as best he can, with those damned glasses keeping Crowley’s beautiful eyes hidden from him), and they slip off to Crowley’s chambers.

Their first coupling in Crowley’s extravagant four-poster bed is hungry, almost desperate. Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hips bruisingly tight as he slams into him over and over again, until Aziraphale finally spills inside him with a cry. They collapse together after the first round, both of them breathing heavily, and Crowley’s a bit _smug_ as he winds himself around Aziraphale, claims his lips in a leisurely kiss. Given that they’re both ethereal/occult beings who bear only the semblance of humanity, it’s easy enough to forgo their respective refractory periods and coax their corporations back to full readiness. After some consideration, Crowley swaps out his rock-hard prick for a lovely, slick cunt, already dripping with readiness and absolutely mouth-wateringly fragrant.

Aziraphale buries his mouth between Crowley’s thighs and tongue-fucks him to three orgasms before he’s had his fill of eating Crowley out. Only then does he claim him again, and Crowley’s legs wrap tightly around his waist as he sinks into Crowley’s hot, wet opening. By the time he’s emptied himself inside his darling demon once more, they’re both a bit of a sweaty, sticky mess, and Crowley’s absolutely _covered_ in bite marks and bruises. Aziraphale pretends it’s an accident that they’re most heavily populated around Crowley’s neck, where the whole world will be able to see them, and Crowley snorts but doesn’t bother calling him out on the lie.

It’s wonderful, and they lie there in one another’s arms afterwards as they cool off, Crowley half-dozing and Aziraphale simply basking in the after-glow and the _love_ he feels for the Serpent of Eden. As always, it’s not nearly enough, and after spending the night (even sleeping for a few hours himself, which is rare), Aziraphale bids Crowley adieu in the morning. He doesn’t leave until after he’s fucked Crowley again, then ridden him for good measure, but it’s still far too soon. Aziraphale’s heart sinks as he offers Crowley a final sad smile and departs. There’s no telling when they’ll meet again, when it’ll be _safe_ enough to spend true quality time together once more.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Aziraphale keeps himself busy enough spreading heavenly blessings and fomenting peace throughout the land, ensuring King Arthur’s reign is as peaceful and prosperous as possible. Being a Knight of the Round Table can be a bit violent at times, unfortunately, though he manages to dispense of those who seek to disrupt the Kingdom of Wessex without much bloodshed most of the time.

Another somewhat frustrating fact of being a knight is that he’s expected to guard the land against dragons. Aziraphale knows perfectly well that they’re mythological, even more of a joke than the dinosaurs. But he offers tight-lipped smiles and assurances all the same, riding out at least once per fortnight on patrol. (He’s grateful they’re on something of a rotation, so he doesn’t have to spend _all_ his time on such nonsense.)

As always, murmurings of dragons come and go, and Aziraphale dutifully chases the rumors. The real monster is inevitably some warlord, or Mother Nature, or some wild beast, but he thoroughly investigates each and every time nonetheless. Therefore, he has no real reason to suspect the latest tales are anything less than a sham, no matter how many alleged witnesses have come forth and described the glittering black beast rampaging through the countryside.

According to most of the townsfolk, the dragon has a lair high in the mountains, and the beast has hoarded enough gold and jewels to make whoever can vanquish it rich as a king. Aziraphale has no use for such material things and can simply miracle a bit of gold into his pouch as needed, but he knows it’s his duty to alleviate the fears of the peasants. He’s made a bit of a name for himself as a dragonslayer despite his best efforts, so it’s no real surprise he’s ordered to slay the monster. Aziraphale sighs but straps on his sword and loads his horse up with enough supplies to last him some time even without miracles. After all, he's nothing if not accommodating, even when indulging humans' silly superstitions.

The journey into the foothills is peaceful enough, and Aziraphale hardly meets another soul once he’s ventured out past the farmlands and townships. The sun is warm overhead, where it’s managed to pierce the ever-present cloud cover for once, and despite the discomfort of his armor, Aziraphale is reasonably content. He breaks for the night under the cover of trees, though he sleeps fitfully due to his body simply not being used to doing so regularly. As a result, Aziraphale is up before the sun properly rises, eating a simple breakfast of bread and cheese before he continues onward.

Aziraphale hasn’t quite made it into the mountains proper yet when he starts to come across curious signs in the wilderness. Trees have had their bark stripped and trunks gouged by what seems to be enormous claws, bigger than would belong to any cat native to England. The area seems to have been particularly prone to thunderstorms, too, judging by the burnt husks that are all which remains of their neighbors, no doubt victims of a vicious lightning storm. Aziraphale _knows_ that dragons don’t actually exist, but now he’s beginning to wonder if something else is afoot. Something _demonic._

It’s arguably a miracle that Aziraphale makes his way to the purported location of the dragon’s lair without seeing hide nor hair of the creature, but if so, it’s not a miracle of Aziraphale’s doing. Aziraphale is quiet, brow furrowed, and he’s left off riding his horse in favor of leading him on foot through the winding trails that drop off abruptly at the edges. The only sounds are his footsteps, the clopping of the horse’s hooves, and the horse’s heavy breathing. Even the birds have gone quiet. Aziraphale has a _bad_ feeling about this.

He ties his horse up nearby with an apologetic pat and firm instructions to _be good_ (too firm, in fact, for the horse to do anything but oblige), then creeps further up the rocky path as quietly as a man-shaped being in a full suit of armor can manage.

The opening to the presumed dragon’s lair yawns ominously, impenetrably dark despite the relatively sunny day. Bones litter the entrance, not all of them animal in nature, and Aziraphale swallows hard and reaches for his divine powers just in case. The smell of sulphur in the air is unmistakable as he creeps further into the darkness, and Aziraphale hesitates for but a moment before lighting a torch. The same jagged claw marks which he saw in the forest periodically line the cave, making Aziraphale’s stomach churn with anxiety.

For all that it seems like a simple cave from the exterior, the lair is surprisingly deep and complex, almost labyrinthine, and Aziraphale nearly gets lost as he ventures further in. It takes him by surprise when he rounds a corner and is abruptly faced with a _massive_ mound of gold, jewels, and all other manner of precious items. He gasps aloud despite himself, and only then does he notice the glittering black, scaled hide of the creature perched atop its hoard. The beast stirs, and Aziraphale’s heart leaps into his throat, certain he’s about to face some hellish abomination, and then its eye opens, and it’s a _remarkably_ familiar golden hue, all the way down to the distinct, almost diamond shape of the narrow pupil.

“ _Crowley?_ ” Aziraphale exclaims, and there’s no mistaking the snort of amusement he gets in response, even accompanied as it is by a puff of smoke.

“ _Angel_.” The dragon yawns, displaying a truly ferocious array of teeth and a tongue that remains forked even in this form. Dragon-Crowley rises to all four feet and stretches, cat-like, wings arching up toward the ceiling as he gives another massive yawn. Now that he’s upright, Aziraphale can see he has the same crimson-red underside as when he’s in his serpent form. Aziraphale also thinks he’s absolutely _beautiful_ , though that doesn’t quite temper his irritation at discovering his ‘adversary’ is behind the latest draconic rumors.

“ _Honestly_ , Crowley, is this really necessary?” Aziraphale demands peevishly, his mouth down-turned to emphasize his displeasure and his arms crossed in front of his chest despite the awkwardness of the movement with armor in his way. “You know perfectly well that as Knights of the Round Table, we are sworn to protect the land from all evil which threatens it-- including and especially _dragons_.” His voice dips in disapproval on the last word, making his annoyance clear, and he swears Crowley’s lips twitch into a smile, despite his current form’s limited ability for facial expressions.

“What can I say? Being the Black Knight got a bit dull.” Crowley hasn’t bothered to change out of dragon form despite it only being the two of them. He’s even started idly grooming himself, further reinforcing Aziraphale’s view of him as a large, scaled, winged feline. Aziraphale huffs, a sound that’s equal parts grudging amusement and lingering annoyance, and he makes his way closer after stopping to put his torch in a sconce in the wall.

“Well, I suppose I can’t say I’m _that_ surprised,” Aziraphale admits, huffing and puffing as he heaves himself up the mountain of gold in a rather ungainly fashion, his feet slipping as coins shift under his weight. He nearly gets swept away entirely in an avalanche of gold before Crowley hooks a claw under the plates of his armor and hoists him up top with him. Aziraphale squawks in surprise and flails unbecomingly, and he’s flushed red with embarrassment by the time Crowley deposits Aziraphale beside him. “ _Crowley!_ That was-- I was managing just fine by myself! ” Azriaphale grumbles, sniffing as he tries to discretely adjust his armor so it settles back into place. Crowley’s golden eye twinkles at him, nearly as large as Aziraphale’s head. And _goodness_ , he hadn’t realized just how _big_ Crowley was until that moment. 

“You’re welcome,” Crowley drawls, his tongue rasping over his scales as he resumes grooming himself. Aziraphale purses his lips but doesn’t argue further, and there’s silence for a bit while Aziraphale takes in their surroundings (and, a bit more discreetly, Crowley himself).

“You know, being a dragon suits you,” Aziraphale offers quietly after a bit, something of a peace offering. He means it innocently enough, but Crowley gives a quiet snort and does something with the spines above his eye that resembles arching a brow. 

“I didn’t peg you as a _monsterfucke_ , angel,” Crowley remarks, making Aziraphale flush hotly once more. “And here I’d been thinking you’d never want anything to do with my snake form…”

“That’s not-- I didn’t--” Aziraphale stammers, making Crowley rumble with amusement. The sound is low and deep, given he’s nearly pressed up against Crowley, and despite his protests, it makes something stir with interest (and curiosity) in his loins.

“I’m only teasing,” Crowley relents, though something about his tone makes Aziraphale think that maybe… well. Maybe he was only teasing because he doesn’t think Aziraphale _would_ be interested. Aziraphale considers it for a moment, considers the limitations of their current sizes and shapes. Considers the fact that being ethereal/occult greatly decreases the number of limitations they have to begin with. Considers what Crowley’s _anatomy_ , as it were, might be like at the moment. He breathes in a bit shakily at the thought, biting down hard on his lower lip.

Dragon-Crowley’s nostrils flare, and his tongue flickers out to taste the air in confirmation, undoubtedly picking up on the distinct scent of arousal that’s abruptly flooded the area.

“Well, well… You _do_ like me in this form, don’t you?” Crowley muses. His massive head turns to face Aziraphale fully, letting him nose at Aziraphale’s armor. His scaled forearm meanwhile curls around Aziraphale, pulling him close and very nearly knocking him off balance in the process.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale squeaks, embarrassed and aroused and entirely unsure what to do with himself. Crowley stills for a moment, and Aziraphale can almost see the wheels turning in his mind.

“Tell me to stop if you want me to stop, angel,” Crowley rumbles seriously. Aziraphale’s face heats up even more, but he remains silent. Crowley takes it as the consent it is. “Now let’ssss get you out of this nonsensssse,” Crowley hisses, losing himself on the sibilance as always when he gets in the mood. Aziraphale expects him to miracle Aziraphale out of his armor. He does _not_ expect the gleaming obsidian claw to hook gently into the top of his armor and slice cleanly through the middle. (Later, much later, he’ll revisit this moment and compare it to being pried open like a particularly flustered can of sardines.) Crowley’s remarkably adept with his talons, for all that he can’t have been in this form terribly long, and he scarcely scratches Aziraphale as he tears his armor from his body.

Aziraphale’s left trembling, stripped of his armor in the most literal of ways, wearing naught but his undergarments and what’s left of his now fairly tattered gambeson. (And he spares a very brief moment to mourn its loss, because he'd particularly enjoyed the flattering fit of the garment when not hidden beneath his armor.) Crowley hisses in approval and nudges at Aziraphale’s midsection with his nose again. Hesitant, Aziraphale lays a hand on his snout and strokes the hard ridges of his muzzle, and Crowley rumbles appreciatively. It’s only a second later that Crowley makes his next move, however, capturing Aziraphale’s remaining clothes gingerly in his jaws and ripping them easily from his frame.

Now completely nude, Aziraphale’s arousal is unmistakable. He’s manifested a cunt as he so often prefers on the rare occasions Crowley takes charge, and he’s positively _dripping_ with anticipation, thighs surely glistening visibly in the flickering torchlight.

“ _Gorgeousss_ ,” Crowley hisses, nostrils flaring. And when his tongue flickers out to taste Aziraphale, he can do little more than hold onto the dragon’s snout for dear life. Crowley’s tongue right now is nearly as long as Aziraphale is tall, less dexterous than usual as a result. But that doesn’t stop Aziraphale from moaning brokenly as it drags over his slippery folds, the slightly rough (again, cat-like) texture almost painful as it scrapes across his swollen clit. 

“Oh, fuck,” Aziraphale gasps out, his legs threatening to give out, and Crowley gives another low rumble of approval, this one deep enough he can _feel_ it. Crowley has always been _devilishly_ good at taking Aziraphale apart with his tongue, and this new size difference hasn’t done much to hinder it. Aziraphale rocks up against Crowley’s tongue and discovers it’s only rough in one direction and is quite pleasant in the other. He experiments a little with the movements of his hips and finds a rolling motion that works _exquisitely_ with the undulations of Crowley’s tongue. When Crowley pokes the tip of his forked tongue inquisitively towards Aziraphale’s entrance, it’s enough to tip him over the edge into an earth-shattering orgasm. Aziraphale cries out and clutches the spines atop Crowley’s snout as he rocks and shudders and shakes through his climax. Crowley doesn’t quite ease up with his tongue either, not until Aziraphale whimpers at the pain of overstimulation. He clearly can’t get enough of Aziraphale’s juices. (Not that _that's_ anything new.)

When Crowley pulls back a little, Aziraphale collapses onto the gold below him with an _oof_ , his legs refusing to hold him up any longer. His heart’s still pounding and shivers wrack his body with each delicious aftershock, so it’s a moment before he can return to his senses again. When he finally comes back to himself (more or less, his wits are still quite _thoroughly_ scattered), it’s to the realization that Crowley is both _immensely_ proud of himself and still hungry for more.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale manages, giving a fond pat to Crowley’s side. “That was… well. That was quite something. Now, I do believe I owe you a little something in return for that _wonderful_ orgasm," he manages, with all the prim propriety that Crowley often teases him for, _especially_ when he uses it in the bedroom.

“ _Yessss._ ” There's clearly to be no teasing this time, and Aziraphale’s therefore not quite prepared for Crowley to roll over onto his side. He nearly loses his balance and topples down off the mountain of gold, but he grabs onto Crowley’s forearm at the last second and steadies himself. And then, he almost loses his balance all over again when he sees _what_ Crowley’s revealed.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes softly. In place of the fairly standard-issue effort Crowley normally sports, he’s displaying what Aziraphale would almost call a _slit_. But there’s no question _which_ type of effort Crowley’s chosen, because his prick is already jutting proudly forth from where it presumably normally hides within that slit, distinctly reptilian with its ridges and what seem to almost be spines. He’s already oozing precome too, staining his underside and the gold and gems beneath him with its slippery viscosity. Aziraphale gives a low groan of unadulterated _desire_ and moves eagerly towards the absolute treat Crowley’s offering.

Given their current size difference, Crowley’s member is currently about as big as he is, but Aziraphale isn’t going to let that stop him from pleasuring his darling demon. He first drags his hand ups up and down the sides, exploring the different textures of Crowley’s cock and making the dragon hiss and throb against him. Aziraphale _tastes_ him too, only able to get the very tip in his mouth but finding Crowley’s cock as delicious as always. There’s something a bit different to his taste in this form, something almost _smoky_ that Aziraphale absolutely adores. He suckles at the very tip of that massive prick even as his hands stroke up and down the sides, and before long, he’s aroused all over again. From the way Crowley’s curled halfway in on himself, craning his long neck around so he can watch Aziraphale have his wicked way with his draconic prick, and _especially_ from the way Crowley’s nostrils flare and forked tongue flickers out, he’s well aware of the effect that servicing him is having on Aziraphale.

"Well, well," Crowley hisses, the eye currently facing Aziraphale gleaming with predatory interest. "Ssssomeone'sss absssolutely _marinating_ with _lussst_ , isn't he?" Aziraphale has just enough wherewithal to flush with self-consciousness over how truly wanton he’s been. Him _wanting_ Crowley is nothing new, of course, but he’s rarely been so shamelessly slutty before, and certainly never _quite_ so adventurous. Crowley's tongue flickers out again, and something in his gaze is almost _hungry_. Aziraphale whimpers, struck abruptly with the idea that Crowley looks fit to _devour_ him, and he's not entirely sure in which way. (He is, however, _fairly_ sure that Crowley wouldn't actually do anything to discorporate him. At least not without prior discussion and consent.)

The heavy, comforting fog of his arousal isn't lifted by the thrill of primal fear which hums through him so much as it is _thickened._ It's the same jolt of giddy anticipation that struck him the first time he and Crowley kissed. The knowledge that he's doing something arguably _wicked_ , something _dangerous_ and quite possibly deadly that he nonetheless finds absolutely captivating. Sensing (or perhaps, _smelling_ ) the subtle shift in his mood, Crowley gives a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound deep enough to reverberate through Aziraphale in seismic waves that make him shiver anew.

Crowley obligingly rolls over more fully onto his back, wings carefully but almost casually stretched out on either side of him framing him like the living embodiment of the Chi-Ro. The blasphemous thought draws a noise from Aziraphale, the sacrilege of the demonic perversion leaving him dizzy with intoxication. He clambers on top of Crowley with an almost frantic urgency, desperate to straddle that truly massive reptilian prick. His legs spread uncomfortably wide around Crowley’s girth, draconic member pressed up against Crowley’s underside in a way that leaves Aziraphale free to slide his dripping wet cunt along as much of his length as he can manage. Crowley gives a low rumble of approval, and Aziraphale lets out an almost pained whimper. Aziraphale’s always been enormously fond of Crowley’s cock (and, of course, his cunt), and for once it seems his gargantuan appreciation is matched in breadth (and length) by the object of his affection. 

There are definite limitations to their size difference and to how much pleasure he can reasonably offer Crowley when his lover’s cock is the size of Aziraphale’s entire body, but he manages to settle himself up high enough on Crowley’s cock that he can lean in and eagerly worship the very tip of that lovely prick with his lips and tongue. He’s especially pleased to discover that Crowley has the exact same _particularly_ sensitive spot on the underside of his head, where his frenulum would be if he were a bit more human-shaped at present. Aziraphale moans and grinds himself against the underside of Crowley’s cock, the ridges and surprisingly supple spines torturously teasing with how they rub up against his entrance. Aziraphale uses his hands as best he can to stroke along the tapered head of Crowley’s cock while he grinds wetly against him, and it isn’t long at all before Crowley’s giving the tell-tale signs of his impending climax-- only they sounds have never been quite so _deep_ before, never so sonorous as to be felt all the way down to Aziraphale’s bones.

Aziraphale’s nevertheless the one who tips over the edge first, crying out as he shudders from atop Crowley’s massive cock. He’s entirely unprepared for the way Crowley _roars_ and bucks when he follows a second later, and Aziraphale nearly gets thrown off by Crowley’s spasms of pleasure. But oh, it’s _utterly_ worth it for the absolutely captivating sight of Crowley's cock pulsing beneath him, coating his underside in what seems to be _gallons_ of his draconic seed. Aziraphale gives a helpless moan and clings to Crowley’s underside as best he can, stretching forward to sample what’s within reach, positively _ravenous_ for the taste of his spend. His own aftershocks roll through him with pleasant little sparks of pleasure that remind him just how much he _likes_ getting off when he has this particular type of effort. Greedy, he continues lapping at the copious evidence of Crowley’s release until Crowley gives the kind of impatient noise that Aziraphale would recognize anywhere, even distorted as it is by his thicker-than-usual vocal cords. Aziraphale gives a sigh of disappointment but slips gingerly down off Crowley, allowing him to roll back over onto his belly once more. Aziraphale feels a twinge of distinct regret as the rest of Crowley’s semen vanishes into the ether. 

What’s next is familiar enough, however, despite the change in Crowley’s size and shape. Aziraphale gladly reclaims some physical intimacy, nestling on up to Crowley’s side and stroking the ridges and spines along Crowley’s brow and snout. It’s a bit like snuggling up with him in his serpent form, but with the pleasant lassitude of post-coital bliss. (And _there’s_ a thought to revisit later-- sex with the _true_ Serpent of Eden. Aziraphale tries not to squirm.) Unlike said corporation, however, this one’s been gifted with eyelids, and a fond little smile creeps onto Aziraphale’s face as he watches them sink lower and lower.

“Sleep, my dearest serpent, and dream of whatever it is you like best,” Aziraphale murmurs softly. Crowley’s arm curls around him in response as he breathes out a puff of sulfur-tinged smoke from his nostrils, and then his wing descends fondly, protectively around Aziraphale, blanketing him in contentment. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Reporting to King Arthur several weeks later and explaining precisely _how_ he'd 'slain' the dragon is a bit of an awkward moment. The normally fairly eloquent Sir Aziraphale stammers and stumbles his way through the debriefing. Luckily, His Royal Majesty simply ascribes his blatant discomfiture to reports that the Black Knight has returned from whatever hell had first spawned him-- and had swallowed him up some months prior without a trace. After all, Aziraphale had never been particularly subtle about his dalliances with his so-called nemesis, however sly he might think himself and however skilled an actor he might (falsely) believe himself to be. No doubt Aziraphale has been busy re-acquainting himself with his rival, the king thinks with some amusement.

Still, at least there's no been no sign of the dragon as of late. And as long as his kingdom is free from that wretched beast, Aziraphale can do as he wishes with his adversaries.

**Author's Note:**

> By 'implied consent,' I specifically mean that Crowley manhandles Aziraphale a bit (or angelhandles him, or would that be demonhandles??) but then tells Aziraphale quite seriously to tell him to stop if he wants him to. Aziraphale stays silent, and it's very clear in the fic that that means he's consenting.
> 
> There's also implied/hinted at vore (but not really) and mention of possible discorporation kink.


End file.
